Misericordia
by metacognitive
Summary: Laura does it out of mercy. AU.


warnings for implied kate/derek. poem by eunice odio, translated by suzanne jill levine, titled "Recuerdo de mi infancia privada" ("Memory of my private childhood")

* * *

me buscaba  
entre los habitantes de ese abril  
con océanos

con árboles, / y yo corría, / corría

con mis piernas de niña  
para ser hallada

con la voz / en la tarde

* * *

she sought me  
among the inhabitants of that April  
with oceans,

with trees, / and I ran, / ran,

with my little girl's legs  
to be found

with my voice / in the afternoon.

* * *

Laura does it out of mercy.

It's just the two of them, Derek curled up in the back of her car in the parking lot, where the scent of home is still stronger than any other in this forsaken hospital. Laura can hear every part of Peter strain—his lungs, his heart, his kidneys. There are bandages covering nearly every inch of him, save for one eye. Swollen, sealed from the pressure alone, to say nothing of the crust of lymph that's dried there.

Laura sits in one of two chairs, the room sterile and empty besides them. He's hooked up to an incredible number of wires; if Laura didn't already know that his healing factor is at its maximum, she would wonder at their ability to stay inside him. She names the few she knows—IV, catheter, heart monitor. Like something out of a movie and not a nightmare she hadn't even thought to dream up.

She was supposed to be home that weekend anyway. Birthday weekend, cousins and siblings and parents all together to celebrate her nineteenth. She was giddy for the return as much as she was already over it; pack stays together even when they get tired of one another. Letting her leave for Reed—not their territory, not anyone's—had been a surprise she hadn't expected.

In the aftermath, she has no idea what she's going to do. It's been two days; she doesn't have access to the accounts yet. Has a good amount of cash in hers, because her parents—her dead parents, mother and father gone in one fell swoop—wanted to make sure she had enough and then some in case of an emergency. They probably weren't thinking this was the kind of emergency she'd face, though.

Ten people dead. Ten of her family, dead. Just three of this pack left, if Peter survives. Listening to the staccato of his heart, Laura's not so sure. When she breathes all she can smell is antiseptic. He doesn't even smell like home anymore. Nothing but ash and iron on her tongue. Not just wolves dead—her human father, and human grandmother, human cousins…all of them, gone. Charred. The sheriff told her there weren't any bodies to claim, and afterwards she screamed into her steering wheel, Derek pale and terrified next to her. When he climbed out of the car to vomit, she didn't bother comforting him.

She can smell the guilt on him. The terror. He watches her like he's afraid she's going to kill off what remains of their pack. Part of her wants to. The other part—the part her mother nurtured, the part that makes her a big sister and will make her a good Alpha—wants to rip out a certain woman's throat.

She can smell Argent all over her brother. Like perfume he didn't wash off right, like a single silver earring left in the back of her car. She has a meeting with their lawyer tomorrow. She should go see Deaton tonight. She should start planning a way to fix this.

Laura was born for this life; she knows what revenge means, and all the ways it might take shape. She thinks of pretty Kate Argent and her silver tongue and fantasizes about leaving it at her father's feet. Thinks of it like an offering to her mother, nothing left of her on this earth except for her and Derek.

When she curls her fists her nails dig inter her palms. She thinks of Cora, eleven, gap-toothed last she saw her. Of how she looked most like Derek, of how Derek looked most like Laura. The three of them tethered together by blood and magic and any other word her mother would use. She used to say they were her inheritance; that blood came first. That this family, this pack, was the reason for everything.

Laura has met the other Alphas. Has worked with them, sat at her mother's elbow, learning all the things she knew she would one day need. She knows she doesn't know enough. This was supposed to be a never-ending lesson, she thinks, at her mother's elbow until the day she could finally stand alone. At nineteen, that day has come too soon. Laura, watching the machines breathe for Peter, has known this since she woke up two days ago, her breath tearing out of her on a gasp, the pain emanating from every single cell.

When she tried to stand her knees almost gave out. She was more thankful than ever for her lack of roommate, catching herself on her dresser and watching with horror as her eyes flashed red. Alien. The color was made for her mother. Made for Talia Hale, the greatest Alpha seen in generations, the only woman who could handle anything the forest might throw at her. Laura remembers the way others would watch her, the way their gazes would drop. It's Laura's birthright. Or at least it was.

She leans forward in her seat. Says, "Peter," and waits for any sound to show her the truth. If he can hear her there's nothing she can do. If he can't, well.

The room remains silent as it can be; Laura thinks, even without the heightened senses, she would still find this place too loud. Footsteps and breathing and machines doing all the hard work. Peter underneath the sheets and bandages and remnants of himself. The first time Laura tried to hunt she didn't get the deer right, watched her mother kill it out of mercy with something like pity on her face. She imagines her standing next to her, now, her breath against her shoulder as Laura climbs to her feet.

Strange to find the room so large, suddenly. The white floors, white walls, white sheets. Peter pale and as good as dead. She reaches out with one hand—not shaking. Her nails painted pink. Not chewed to the quick, like Cora's always are. Were.

She puts her hand on his throat. Feels the rush of blood, the artificial breathing. Waits for a sign that this is the wrong choice. Wills it into existence, even if it's just something she imagines.

When she gets nothing, she squeezes. Reaches out to the heart monitor and slices through a wire with claws she inherited from her mother. Imagines her relief at being joined by her brother.

It doesn't take long. He doesn't even struggle. When Laura steps back she feels nothing. No pain from another lost pack member, no guilt at speeding up the inevitable. She watches Peter's body—that's all that's left of him, really, and even then it's not so much—and remembers the uncle that taught her how to drive, and how to ride a bike, and used to carry her on his shoulders. She remembers the nights he spent building forts with Cora and teasing Derek about girls. She lets her fingers trace over where an eyebrow might have been, the strong line of his nose.

Laura takes a step back. And then another. And then another. In the parking lot, Derek is waiting for her. She has work to do before leaving this town.


End file.
